


International Relations

by shambling



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: M/M, Porn With Plot, Sweet summer child, The Past, a visit to the colonies, accidental smut, sort of, thomas nightingale was definitely young and carefree once
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shambling/pseuds/shambling
Summary: Thomas Nightingale has been sent to meet with a river spirit, to get away from London, to stop mooning around after bloody Mellenby and to maybe pick up some exciting venereal diseases along the way.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A thousand apologies if I have mistranslated any of this too badly, I blame google, which wouldn't necessarily give me the same translation more than twice.
> 
> Jadoogar - Wizard  
> Sahib - Polite honorific, Mr/Master/Sir.  
> Nirdōṣa (ēka) - innocent (one)  
> Grīṣmē śiśu - summer child  
> Dēbatā - Deity/God  
> Namaste - a polite greeting  
> Diànxià - her highness
> 
> Apologies also that this is set in 1926, and so Nightingale has a touch of the old institutional racism about him, and "prick" was considered a perfectly good euphemism. I checked.
> 
>  
> 
> Hooghly is a river in West Bengal, also a town and a district, it is a distributary of the Ganga, a goddess in Hindu mythology, and so I gave Hooghly the surname, Putra-Ganga, which google assures me would translate as "son of Ganga".
> 
> I'm choosing to assume that any linguistic fuck ups are the fault of an English boarding school education on Nightingale's part, where the idea of learning to speak the native language would be an anathema.
> 
> This wasn't the story I sat down to write for the Hanging Tree Countdown, but it fell out of me. I liked the idea of young Nightingale having fun. If our timelines are correct, he should be 26 when this is set, and carefree. The Great War has happened, the Second is not yet on the horizon if you're not looking too closely. 
> 
> I have a firm head cannon that young Thomas would've ridden a motor bike. Originally I wanted to put him on a Scott Flying Squirrel (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Flying_Squirrel), because they're sexy as all hell, but the Indian Scout made more sense in context, and isn't a bad looking bike either (http://www.yesterdays.nl/images/Indian-1926-Chief-JB-2.jpg).
> 
> I've checked, and British Airways flew the first plane to New Delhi in 1926, so let us assume for the purpose that young Thomas was one of those lucky passengers.
> 
> A johdpuri suit looks a bit like this: https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/34/7f/47/347f473382d745be7625d30a803703d9.jpg
> 
> In india it is considered quite scandalous for a man and woman to shake hands, let alone touch. I have extrapolated that in 20's india, the idea of a native man touching a white one in public would be equally alarming to some. Yay empire! *dies of embarrassment* 
> 
> And finally, most of my reading lead me to the discovery that indian honorifics favour full names and titles where possible, hence Hooghly referring to nightingale effectively as "Sir Wizard" and why it is polite for Nightingale to refer to "Sir Deity."
> 
> Hooghly is pronounced how it sounds, alternative spellings are things like Hoogli.
> 
> Update! Chanjiang is the river, of which a section is referred to as the Yangtze.
> 
>  
> 
> Blimey Guys, don't accidentally set your little sexy character study in 1920's india, you will spend hours on the research.
> 
> Here ends what has become a somewhat epic prologue, like those wordsworth editions from school.
> 
> Shambling  
> 2016.
> 
> P.S. Allahabad is actually enroute to New Delhi, I put that much effort in.

The young man before him is beautifully dressed in the modern style, a beautifully embroidered Johdpuri suit in maroon and grey, his dark hair neatly brushed back off his temples, clean shaven with skin as soft as any lady. His eyes sparkle, mischievously, he grins in an entirely deferential manner, and Nightingale knows he has found the right man.

“Namaste, Sahib Dēbatā Hooghly Putra-Ganga?” he asks, bowing politely. The man before him smiles broadly and nods, returning the gesture, “Namaste Sahib Jadoogar Thomas Nightingale! I have been expecting you, and looking forward to your visit. Come, take tea with me. I will hold you to no obligations, and hope only that you enjoy your visit to my beautiful city.” Hooghly places a hand on his elbow to guide him, and suddenly Nightingale knows why there were so many bawdy winks upon his departure that morning, but he does not question it, not yet. Maybe Rivers hold to different customs here. He smiles and nods politely as Putra-Ganga, directs his attention this way and that, greeting people in the street with a smile and a kind word for everyone who passes. He feels a brief stab of embarrassment that Putra-Ganga’s English is perfect whilst his own grasp of Bengali, or any of the other languages of India, is so shaky. Of course his father would say that the whole point of an empire was so that a man could speak English wherever he went, but Thomas had never really seen eye to eye with him on a lot of things.

Putra-Ganga is touching his arm again, and Thomas swallows awkwardly, but he is being lead away from the prying eyes that surround him, into a cool dark room, where tea is produced, and a glass of cool water, and assurances given. “Sahib Dēbatā Hooghly Putra-Ganga…” Thomas begins, but he is cut off.

“Please, Sahib Jadoogar, call me Hooghly.” The smile is charming, twinkling, like precious stones in the sun, Thomas feels awkward and shabby in his pale suit, marred with the dust of the road. “Then, Hooghly, I feel I should insist you call me Thomas, so at least we are equal in this.” Thomas glances up from untying his other boot, horribly aware of the smudge of engine grease to the inside of his trouser leg. Molly will be unhappy with him when he returns. 

Hooghly is regarding him with a fierce intensity, cross legged on a cushion, and Thomas is struck by the feeling that he is being seen all the way through to his bones. It should be uncomfortable, but instead, he finds he rather likes it. “Do you know, Thomas, why they sent you to me?” It is an odd question, but Thomas is confident he can answer. He sips his tea first. “My masters felt I needed to see the world before I could commit to a settled life in London, that I needed to know what the empire had to offer us, and what I could offer to it. They said that there were bonds that needed to be renewed, and that I might as well make myself some useful acquaintances along the way.” What he doesn’t add is that they felt he needed to get out more, to stop mooning after David quite so much, and to pick up some exciting rare venereal diseases with a few backwards out of the way girls. It would’ve been bad form to say so out loud.

Hooghly is smiling in such a way that for a brief moment, Thomas fears he has said the last of this out loud, but apparently not, for he does not pass comment. Instead, Hooghly stands, and goes to the Victrola, a disk is already in place, and so he winds it into life. Gentle strains of jazz permeate the air, and Thomas watches, interested, as the man before him makes his pronouncement to the wall.

“ _Nirdōṣa_ Thomas they should call you. Have you really heard nothing about me?” He glances back over his shoulder, a striking profile, Thomas loosens his tie slightly, and shakes his head. “Should I have?”

“Oh my sweet summer child. Tell me then, why you?” He has seated himself opposite Thomas, so close his knees might touch, and Thomas can barely breathe, he is starting to understand. “Well, Mellenby is busy with the Germans, and Greenway is in Greece I think, and Dance..” He tails off, Hooghy is smirking again, and Thomas knows that this isn’t the answer he’s waiting for. He takes a breath, and undoes the top button on his shirt so that he can loosen his tie a little further. He feels a little trickling of sweat on the nape of his neck, whilst Hooghly is perfectly at ease. “Why,” asks Hooghly, “Why you, why here, why now? Why could it not wait until Mellenby had finished in Germany? Or why did you not go to Greece in place of Greenway? That is my question for you Thomas.” Thomas does not have a good answer, but he knows exactly the reason.

“They said there was a price to pay, I assumed it was magical. I’m the most proficient of the youngsters. And they thought I ought to get out and see the empire. Father always says I had the strangest ideas in my head. Is that enough an answer for you?” He feels dizzy with anticipation. He wants desperately to reach out, to run his fingers across the fine boned face, to dip unbutton Hooghly’s suit. He can feel the vestigial and power running off the man now, freshly crushed mint, the smell of hot soil after the first drops of rain and panch phoron. “It is a magic of sorts, _nirdōṣa ēka,_ my

 _grīṣmē śiśu_.” Nightingale might not speak Bengali, but he knows when he is being teased, and he frowns a little, Hooghly reaches over, pushing the lines from his faces with a thumb, his long fingers touching lightly on Nightingale’s cheek and ghosting against his ear. He is grinning now, broad and sparkling, and Thomas knows that he is being teased with fondness, he knows all too well what Hooghly is hinting at, but he’s afraid to say it out loud. Hooghly, immortal river spirit that he is, seems to have no such concerns.

“You, _nirdōṣa_ _samakāma,_ are really very beautiful my boy. I should like very much to see _more_ of you.” The waves of power coming off him now are heady, but none of them compelling, no glamour, just a strong sense of possibility. Thomas wonders briefly if he is radiating in the same way, remembers Mellenby’s insistence on the scientific method, and how he would’ve merrily tried to fuck Thomas in the lab if he’d thought there was something to learn from it. He barely suppresses a shudder of want. Hooghly is smiling, cat like, shifting to kneel in front of Thomas, pushing his dark hair off his face. Thomas continues to stare transfixed, hands neatly folded in his lap as though held there by force, unable to do anything but watch as the man before him takes his tie in hand, using it as a leash to pull him forwards, until there faces are barely half an inch apart. He pauses, and all of a sudden Nightingale finds his voice, hoarse and a little harsh, like he’s been smoking and shouting all night. “Please.” One simple word, but it coincides with the record ending, seeming all the louder in the sudden silece.

“It would be my pleasure Sahib Jadoogar Thomas Nightingale.” Hooghly growls, deep in his throat, and Thomas feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Hooghly tightens his grip on the navy silk tie, pulling Thomas the last few few fractions of an inch until their lips meet, Thomas can never get over the illicit thrill of kissing another man, but kissing a magical being is like something else. The feeling is electric, humming through all his nerves like a shock from a plug, and at the same time heady, clouded in power. He rocks up onto his own knees, reaching out to stroke Hooghly’s dark hair, to run fingers over his face, touching his delicate cheekbones. They break apart, and for a short moment Thomas marvels at how pale he looks next to his dusky companion, like fresh milk in the bottom pan. Hooghly makes an impatient noise, loosening Thomas’ tie, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, to lie crumpled around their feet. Thomas takes his cue, leaning forward to kiss Hooghly more deeply as his fingers quest for the buttons of the unfamiliar suit, slipping them through their holders as fast as he can. 

He stumbles, and is distracted as Hooghly undoes the buttons of his shirt with practised ease, and kisses down his neck and onto his chest, nibbling and biting gently as he goes. Thomas makes do with what he has achieved so far, pushing his hands into the open neck of Hooghly’s garments, running his hands down across the nut brown chest, brushing the fine scattering of dark hair he finds there. He feels an absurd desire to lick between the other mans collarbones, and when Hooghly pauses briefly in his kisses, Thomas does. This earns him a deep groan, Hooghly finally letting him go, only briefly, to undo the rest of his buttons, and whilst he does, Thomas does it again.

He does not recall either of them consciously removing their shirts, but an expanse of dark chest is now open to him, and Thomas does his best to explore every inch with his mouth. He follows the trail of hair down to Hooghly’s waistband, where the man stops him briefly with a touch to his hair. “Thomas, I do not wish…” he begins, and Thomas pushes him gently back to the floor, “I know what I’m doing Hooghly, I’m not quite such an innocent blushing virgin as you might believe.” Hooghly laughs richly, staring up at Thomas with a look of something like wonderment. Finally gaining in confidence, Thomas offers a cheeky grin in return, pushing his hand down the front of Hooghly’s trousers, touching his palm to the other mans prick. Hooghly arches up off the floor into his touch, making a delicious sort of keening noise, which gets deeper in tone as Thomas gently wraps his fingers around and starts to fist him slowly, movements limited by their clothes. Hooghly responds with urgent groans, and a redoubled attempt to remove Thomas’ trousers, which necessitates that they part for a moment, but it is worth it. 

Entirely naked now, Hooghly pushes Thomas back onto the floor, strong arms pinning him gently, although Thomas is content enough to watch and see how this goes. Hooghly lays his full length against Thomas, so that every inch of them is touching, and then he thrusts gently, biting Thomas’ neck as he does so. Thomas cannot hold back a groan now, as their pricks rub together, too much and not enough all at once. He compensates by wrapping his arms tightly around Hooghly as they thrust together, pulling him as close as possible, whilst Hooghly’s arms seem to be everywhere at once. One at least is definitely tangled in his hair, whilst the other is snaking between them to grip them together, fisting in an increasingly erratic fashion, almost but not quite timed to their thrusting against one another.

Somewhere on the borders of hearing, Thomas can hear a rushing in his ears, like a mighty river in full flow at the height of the rainy season, and can smell petrichor. Hooghly times a movement of his hand and his lithe body perfectly, and Thomas can see stars.

 

*

 

Later, riding his motorcycle out towards his stopover in Allahabad in the cool of the night, Thomas Nightingale reflects that perhaps it is no bad thing to be “altogether too queer a boy for his own good.” Although he is quite sure this is not what Master Pearson had in mind when he first said it, or when he recommended they sent him and not Horace on the colonial assignment. He rearranges his tie to cover the bruise on his neck, and then opens the throttle. On this long stretch of road between the fields, he’s pretty sure the scout might reach 80, and he has an appointment in Shanghai to keep. He’s heard Diànxià Cháng Jiāng can be difficult when her patience is tested.

 


End file.
